While working at the ice-cream factory, I was allowed to eat as much free ice-cream and ice-cream treats as I pleased while on the clock. It was the only thing I really enjoyed about the job, and the only reason I even applied for it. Over the past eight weeks, I have been keeping a tally of all that I ate and have been updating you in my blog entries. Well, now that my employment is official over at the ice-cream factory, I will kindly tally everything up. For purposes here, I will divide them into categories of Ice-Cream Treats, Ice-Cream Cones, and Gallons of Ice-Cream. If you would like to see a detailed list of what these categories include, see The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally).
Drum roll, please . . . Over a period of eight weeks, I ate a grand total of . . .
10.625 Gallons of ice-cream
27 Ice-cream cones
189 Ice-Cream treats
* Not to mention the Goliath Sundae I ate in one sitting (12 hearty scoops of ice-cream along with three toppings, whipped cream, and one cherry--I know, one cherry doesn't seem to cut it, huh?)
If I had been more motivated, I would have kept track of all the calories I had eaten as well. Sadly, I didn't, but I can assure you it was a lot. Some of the treats I ate had 360 calories in each of them and contained two-thirds of my daily saturated fat.
Speaking of fat, I did keep a close watch on my weight. I weighed myself before, several times during, and then after this two month ice-cream binge, during which time I fluctuated no more than one pound. There was even a week that I was lighter than when I started! I began at 178 pounds and finished at 178.5 pounds. I know you're jealous. It should also be mentioned that I have not suffered from such side effects as stroke or heart attack, heightened general fatigue, feelings of depression, blindness, or bloody stool. I'm as fit and slim as ever thanks to my crazy metabolism. Thank you, Crazy Metabolism! (thumbs up)
I will tell you, though, that I already miss the free ice-cream. Before I quit, I tried to convince one of my co-workers to throw entire cases of ice-cream out of the break room window to me. She laughed. I don't think she realized I was being serious.
Showing posts with label Ice-Cream Factory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ice-Cream Factory. Show all posts
24 July 2011
The Not So Great Escape
Finally! My last day at the ice-cream factory has arrived! I woke up with a big smile on my face and was singing and laughing to myself as I got ready for work, but my happiness quickly died when I stepped foot into the factory to being my last shift. I was no longer happy or energetic. I just wanted to leave. Really bad.
The first hour and a half, I didn't do anything. I wasted time walking around or sitting in discrete locations. And when I couldn't avoid working any longer, I was actually thankful. I thought it would help time move faster. But it didn't. Even while I was cleaning, time still moved slower than a three-legged dog which had two broken legs.
And that's when I decided I'd do it. I'd leave work without telling anyone. I'd just stop cleaning, take off my gear, turn in my tools and padlocks, and get the Hell away from there. It was going to be a great escape. In my mind's eye, I saw myself slipping through the factory with the stealth of a ninja, moving undetected amongst my naive co-workers, inwardly laughing to myself and their obliviousness.
I never really expected my escape to be so glamorous. I just hoped no one tried to stop me. And it probably would have turned out that way, if I hadn't been so excited and nervous that I screwed up.
While I was leaving the production floor, Mario (see Co-Worker Freak Show) asked me where I was going. I lied and told him I needed to pee. He nodded and returned to minding his own business--as he should have! So, I was caught, and I lied. It didn't seem like too big of a deal. But when I made it to the locker room, I realized I had forgotten to take one of my locks off one of the machines I had been cleaning (we cut the power to the machines and lock the power switches in the off position to prevent them from being turned on while we are cleaning them and causing us to lose our fingers, hands, arms, or lives). I could have left my lock on the machine, but it would have drawn attention to my absence and cost me an $11 replacement fee when it had to be cut off. Hating to do it, I decided I would rather return to the machine, remove the lock, and run away with an extra $11 in my pocket.
The only problem was that I had already thrown away my safety gear and I would have to wear it to go back out onto the production floor to fetch my lock.
Compromising, I pulled out the absolute essentials (hard hat, ear plugs, hair and bear net, safety glasses) from the trash (they didn't seem too dirty or contaminated) and I hoped that everyone would be so preoccupied that they wouldn't notice me running around with only half of my sanitation gear on. I kept chanting "Be preoccupied! Be preoccupied!" to myself as I rushed to the machine and back. No one said anything to me, and I used a different route so as to avoid running into Mario again, but I'm sure people noticed my inappropriate attire and wondered what I was doing. Thank goodness they didn't stop me to ask what was going on.
Once I had returned to the locker room, I redeposited my safety gear into the trash can and emptied out my locker. And then I was caught a second time. Someone from a different sanitation team was in the locker room when I made it back there (don't ask me why because he should have been busy cleaning a machine, that lazy jerk). He made a surprised noise and asked me where I was going. I tried to act nonchalant about it and responded that I was done, for good. He made another surprised noise, made polite conversation, and then left the locker room.
By the sound of it, the man in the locker room hadn't realized I was leaving early. But fearing that he might connect the dots, notify a supervisor, and I'd be caught before I could leave the factory property, I moved even faster than before. I grabbed everything from my locker, returned my locks (I forgot my tools in a place I couldn't go without my safety gear on, so I left it there), and went to the break room to get the tupperware I had brought that day. And guess who was in the break room. El Cholo (see El Cholo).
He was also surprised to see me out of my safety gear and asked me what I was doing. All I said was "I'm out" and received "That's bull___" in return. I didn't bother responding, even though I would have loved to say "No. What's bull___ is how worthless of a human being you are." Instead, I rushed out of the factory, half-fearing that someone would have sounded the alarm and I would be chased down by factory security and made to finish out the full work day. I saw myself getting tackled on the pavement and being drug back into the factory while struggling to free myself and screaming "I'm not going back! You'll never take me alive!"
Luckily, or unluckily, no one chased after me, I wasn't tackled, and I didn't have to scream out prison cliches. But I still biked away from that pit of misery as fast as I possibly could.
I wonder how long it took for everyone to figure out that I was gone. At least three people had seen me leaving, two of which I had admitted to being done for the day (and for good). A part of me feels guilty for just walking out. I've never done anything like that, and part of me feels responsible for not doing my fair share of the remainder of the day's work. But I won't be losing any sleep tonight. They kept saying they were going to soak me with the water hoses, and, guess what. I was too stealthy for that! No soaking this deadly ninja assassin!
One final note : In all of the excitement of my not so great escape, I am not sure if I clocked out properly. I may have actually clocked out and then clocked right back in. Whoops.
Final Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Cookie Dough Ice-Cream, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars
The first hour and a half, I didn't do anything. I wasted time walking around or sitting in discrete locations. And when I couldn't avoid working any longer, I was actually thankful. I thought it would help time move faster. But it didn't. Even while I was cleaning, time still moved slower than a three-legged dog which had two broken legs.
And that's when I decided I'd do it. I'd leave work without telling anyone. I'd just stop cleaning, take off my gear, turn in my tools and padlocks, and get the Hell away from there. It was going to be a great escape. In my mind's eye, I saw myself slipping through the factory with the stealth of a ninja, moving undetected amongst my naive co-workers, inwardly laughing to myself and their obliviousness.
I never really expected my escape to be so glamorous. I just hoped no one tried to stop me. And it probably would have turned out that way, if I hadn't been so excited and nervous that I screwed up.
While I was leaving the production floor, Mario (see Co-Worker Freak Show) asked me where I was going. I lied and told him I needed to pee. He nodded and returned to minding his own business--as he should have! So, I was caught, and I lied. It didn't seem like too big of a deal. But when I made it to the locker room, I realized I had forgotten to take one of my locks off one of the machines I had been cleaning (we cut the power to the machines and lock the power switches in the off position to prevent them from being turned on while we are cleaning them and causing us to lose our fingers, hands, arms, or lives). I could have left my lock on the machine, but it would have drawn attention to my absence and cost me an $11 replacement fee when it had to be cut off. Hating to do it, I decided I would rather return to the machine, remove the lock, and run away with an extra $11 in my pocket.
The only problem was that I had already thrown away my safety gear and I would have to wear it to go back out onto the production floor to fetch my lock.
Compromising, I pulled out the absolute essentials (hard hat, ear plugs, hair and bear net, safety glasses) from the trash (they didn't seem too dirty or contaminated) and I hoped that everyone would be so preoccupied that they wouldn't notice me running around with only half of my sanitation gear on. I kept chanting "Be preoccupied! Be preoccupied!" to myself as I rushed to the machine and back. No one said anything to me, and I used a different route so as to avoid running into Mario again, but I'm sure people noticed my inappropriate attire and wondered what I was doing. Thank goodness they didn't stop me to ask what was going on.
Once I had returned to the locker room, I redeposited my safety gear into the trash can and emptied out my locker. And then I was caught a second time. Someone from a different sanitation team was in the locker room when I made it back there (don't ask me why because he should have been busy cleaning a machine, that lazy jerk). He made a surprised noise and asked me where I was going. I tried to act nonchalant about it and responded that I was done, for good. He made another surprised noise, made polite conversation, and then left the locker room.
By the sound of it, the man in the locker room hadn't realized I was leaving early. But fearing that he might connect the dots, notify a supervisor, and I'd be caught before I could leave the factory property, I moved even faster than before. I grabbed everything from my locker, returned my locks (I forgot my tools in a place I couldn't go without my safety gear on, so I left it there), and went to the break room to get the tupperware I had brought that day. And guess who was in the break room. El Cholo (see El Cholo).
He was also surprised to see me out of my safety gear and asked me what I was doing. All I said was "I'm out" and received "That's bull___" in return. I didn't bother responding, even though I would have loved to say "No. What's bull___ is how worthless of a human being you are." Instead, I rushed out of the factory, half-fearing that someone would have sounded the alarm and I would be chased down by factory security and made to finish out the full work day. I saw myself getting tackled on the pavement and being drug back into the factory while struggling to free myself and screaming "I'm not going back! You'll never take me alive!"
Luckily, or unluckily, no one chased after me, I wasn't tackled, and I didn't have to scream out prison cliches. But I still biked away from that pit of misery as fast as I possibly could.
I wonder how long it took for everyone to figure out that I was gone. At least three people had seen me leaving, two of which I had admitted to being done for the day (and for good). A part of me feels guilty for just walking out. I've never done anything like that, and part of me feels responsible for not doing my fair share of the remainder of the day's work. But I won't be losing any sleep tonight. They kept saying they were going to soak me with the water hoses, and, guess what. I was too stealthy for that! No soaking this deadly ninja assassin!
One final note : In all of the excitement of my not so great escape, I am not sure if I clocked out properly. I may have actually clocked out and then clocked right back in. Whoops.
Final Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Cookie Dough Ice-Cream, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
22 July 2011
Screamo
Today, I am going to write about another co-worker of mine. I could have included him along with all of my other . . . interesting . . . yeah, let's go with interesting co-workers in Co-Worker Freak Show, but I figured he was a big enough character to have his own blog entry. I should apologize in advance, but I am going to vicariously introduce you to a person whose code name shall be Screamo.
I call him Screamo, because, despite being only five feet tall, he is the loudest person I have ever met and he usually makes me want to scream. It's a good thing he wasn't in hiding with Anne Frank because there is no way he would have been able to stay quiet all day, every day for so long. He always talks as loud as he possible can, usually stretching the names of people and other words out into long grunting/groaning noises. So, instead of saying, "George, how are you doing today?" he says "GEEEEOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRGE, HOW YOOOOOOU DOOOOOOOOOOOIN'?" (George is a random name. No one I know, neither myself, is named George.) And a lot of the time, he doesn't even use discernable words. He just looks at someone and smiles and makes his trademark three-second groan. I have a serious suspicion that he is at least partially insane.
Luckily, this annoying man is on a different sanitation team than me, but I have had a multitude of run-ins with him, three of which I will share with you.
Run-In #1 : One day, my team was called to help Screamo's team clean one of their machines. As I rarely clean that particular machine, I wasn't too familiar with what to do. At one point, Screamo approached me and started grunting and pointing at something. I looked at him blankly. He saw that I didn't understand. And then he pointed and groaned again. I shifted my blank stare into a glare and responded, "I don't understand grunts." He then used his loud, loud words to explain how I could more efficiently clean the machine, leaving me confused why groaning was his first choice for methods of communication.
Run-In #2 : Once again, my team was called to help Screamo's team on one of their machines (because they're lazy and slow). When I got to their machine, they were in the middle of cleaning it, and as I didn't know what needed to still be cleaned, I had to ask someone. Well, guess who the first person I ran into was. Yes. Screamo. He had a brush in his hands and was scrubbing something, and when I asked him what to do, he handed me his brush and said he was going home for the day. I shoved the brush back into his hands and told him that I was willing help him clean his machine but that I wasn't going to do his job for him. He looked me up and down as if he was disgusted and I walked off to find something else to do. A few minutes later, I saw Screamo leaving the production floor and leaving my team to do the work he refused to do.
Run-In #3 : One day, some sanitation employees were planning to take a long lunch and go to a restaurant. I was invited and went along. At the restaurant, the employees trickled in, filling up a couple of tables. Screamo was the last to arrive and found that the tables we were sitting at were full. He sat down at a different table by himself and tried to call some people over to with him. No one moved. He tried to coax some of us over again, this time calling us by name. He called to me, but I ignored him. He ended up eating by himself and I felt kind of bad, but the last thing I wanted to do was eat lunch with him. I avoid him the best I can, so there was no way I was going to willingly subject myself to him more than what is unavoidable. I might have stabbed him after the fifteenth groan. No. I take that back. I most definitely would have stabbed him after the fifteenth groan. So, maybe I shouldn't feel bad about ignoring him. I was just saving his life. From me.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Rocky Road Ice-Cream, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars, 1 Orange/Vanilla Treat, 1 Vanilla Waffle Cone
I call him Screamo, because, despite being only five feet tall, he is the loudest person I have ever met and he usually makes me want to scream. It's a good thing he wasn't in hiding with Anne Frank because there is no way he would have been able to stay quiet all day, every day for so long. He always talks as loud as he possible can, usually stretching the names of people and other words out into long grunting/groaning noises. So, instead of saying, "George, how are you doing today?" he says "GEEEEOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRGE, HOW YOOOOOOU DOOOOOOOOOOOIN'?" (George is a random name. No one I know, neither myself, is named George.) And a lot of the time, he doesn't even use discernable words. He just looks at someone and smiles and makes his trademark three-second groan. I have a serious suspicion that he is at least partially insane.
Luckily, this annoying man is on a different sanitation team than me, but I have had a multitude of run-ins with him, three of which I will share with you.
Run-In #1 : One day, my team was called to help Screamo's team clean one of their machines. As I rarely clean that particular machine, I wasn't too familiar with what to do. At one point, Screamo approached me and started grunting and pointing at something. I looked at him blankly. He saw that I didn't understand. And then he pointed and groaned again. I shifted my blank stare into a glare and responded, "I don't understand grunts." He then used his loud, loud words to explain how I could more efficiently clean the machine, leaving me confused why groaning was his first choice for methods of communication.
Run-In #2 : Once again, my team was called to help Screamo's team on one of their machines (because they're lazy and slow). When I got to their machine, they were in the middle of cleaning it, and as I didn't know what needed to still be cleaned, I had to ask someone. Well, guess who the first person I ran into was. Yes. Screamo. He had a brush in his hands and was scrubbing something, and when I asked him what to do, he handed me his brush and said he was going home for the day. I shoved the brush back into his hands and told him that I was willing help him clean his machine but that I wasn't going to do his job for him. He looked me up and down as if he was disgusted and I walked off to find something else to do. A few minutes later, I saw Screamo leaving the production floor and leaving my team to do the work he refused to do.
Run-In #3 : One day, some sanitation employees were planning to take a long lunch and go to a restaurant. I was invited and went along. At the restaurant, the employees trickled in, filling up a couple of tables. Screamo was the last to arrive and found that the tables we were sitting at were full. He sat down at a different table by himself and tried to call some people over to with him. No one moved. He tried to coax some of us over again, this time calling us by name. He called to me, but I ignored him. He ended up eating by himself and I felt kind of bad, but the last thing I wanted to do was eat lunch with him. I avoid him the best I can, so there was no way I was going to willingly subject myself to him more than what is unavoidable. I might have stabbed him after the fifteenth groan. No. I take that back. I most definitely would have stabbed him after the fifteenth groan. So, maybe I shouldn't feel bad about ignoring him. I was just saving his life. From me.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Rocky Road Ice-Cream, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars, 1 Orange/Vanilla Treat, 1 Vanilla Waffle Cone
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
21 July 2011
The Most Pathetic Claw
When I began my job at the ice-cream factory and found out that I would be squeezing hose nozzles all day long, I thought to myself "This is going to be a great! I'm going to get to workout my forearms all the time!" I was, however, sorely mistaken. Instead of growing bigger, stronger forearms, I have been plagued by horrendous hand pain.
The pain wasn't too bad at the beginning. Sure, my hand was sore, but I figured that should be expected since it was being subjected to this new torture I call 8 to 10 hours work days. But over the past several weeks, the pain has only gotten worse.
The odd thing is that the pain is not where I would have expected it to be--either the palm of my hand or my forearm--but is in my fingers. I'm sure there must be muscles inside of my fingers, but I never thought about them until they became painfully aware--in the most literal manner. The pain is more of a dull tightness and pressure running from my knuckles to the first joints of my pinky, ring, and middle fingers throughout the day, but it is much worse in the morning right when I wake up. Since I haven't been moving my fingers for the several hours I have slept, the muscles have become very tight and I can't open them at all for several minutes. Try as I might to straighten those three fingers, they remain throbbing and curled up in the most pathetic claw you have ever seen until I have massaged them and gradually worked them open with my good hand.
When the pain first got bad, I asked a few of my co-workers about it. Assuming it just took a certain amount of time for my hand and fingers to get used to the work, I asked them how long it would take for my hand to stop hurting. The response I received, "When you quit", was not encouraging.
As it turns out, all of the sanitation department suffers from the same hand/finger pain. One fellow employee, a middle-aged Guatemalan woman, said "Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night, and, oh, my God, my hand is on fire. It hurts so bad. I have to rub and rub it and ice it. But what else am I supposed to do? The supervisor's don't like to hear about the pain. When you tell them, they make mad." There was even one employee, who still works there in sanitation, who had to have wrist surgery because of how badly the constant hose squeezing screwed him up. Yikes!
Of course, I have been worried about my hand's well-being, but I figured that if I could tough it out for only a couple of months that there shouldn't be any permanent damage, right? I only have two more days inside of The Ice-Cream Hell Tunnel, and then I will have to just wait and see how well my poor, poor dominant hose-wielding hand springs back from the abuse it has been put through.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Neapolitan Ice-Cream, 1/4 Gallon - Tin Roof Sundae Ice-Cream, 1 Turtle Sundae Bar, 1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar
The pain wasn't too bad at the beginning. Sure, my hand was sore, but I figured that should be expected since it was being subjected to this new torture I call 8 to 10 hours work days. But over the past several weeks, the pain has only gotten worse.
The odd thing is that the pain is not where I would have expected it to be--either the palm of my hand or my forearm--but is in my fingers. I'm sure there must be muscles inside of my fingers, but I never thought about them until they became painfully aware--in the most literal manner. The pain is more of a dull tightness and pressure running from my knuckles to the first joints of my pinky, ring, and middle fingers throughout the day, but it is much worse in the morning right when I wake up. Since I haven't been moving my fingers for the several hours I have slept, the muscles have become very tight and I can't open them at all for several minutes. Try as I might to straighten those three fingers, they remain throbbing and curled up in the most pathetic claw you have ever seen until I have massaged them and gradually worked them open with my good hand.
When the pain first got bad, I asked a few of my co-workers about it. Assuming it just took a certain amount of time for my hand and fingers to get used to the work, I asked them how long it would take for my hand to stop hurting. The response I received, "When you quit", was not encouraging.
As it turns out, all of the sanitation department suffers from the same hand/finger pain. One fellow employee, a middle-aged Guatemalan woman, said "Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night, and, oh, my God, my hand is on fire. It hurts so bad. I have to rub and rub it and ice it. But what else am I supposed to do? The supervisor's don't like to hear about the pain. When you tell them, they make mad." There was even one employee, who still works there in sanitation, who had to have wrist surgery because of how badly the constant hose squeezing screwed him up. Yikes!
Of course, I have been worried about my hand's well-being, but I figured that if I could tough it out for only a couple of months that there shouldn't be any permanent damage, right? I only have two more days inside of The Ice-Cream Hell Tunnel, and then I will have to just wait and see how well my poor, poor dominant hose-wielding hand springs back from the abuse it has been put through.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Neapolitan Ice-Cream, 1/4 Gallon - Tin Roof Sundae Ice-Cream, 1 Turtle Sundae Bar, 1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
19 July 2011
The Fool, I Am!
In a pathetic attempt to appear more grateful for their employees than they actually are, the company supplied everyone with a free lunch today. When I don't know the owner of the company or even most of the managers or supervisors and I get a "thank you" delivered in the form of free food, I feel like I am being tricked into feeling appreciated, especially when I know that I am nothing more than a nameless worker tossed to and fro in a sea of nameless workers. I don't mean to be all pessimistic and sassy, but it just seems like they're trying to distract us from the misery that is factory work by throwing some food at us. Maybe it's just me. Or maybe I'm just too smart for this game.
Anyway, the morals of that story are 1) I don't trust bosses when they give us free food because it feels like they're trying to trick us into forgetting how much we hate our jobs, and 2) I ate way too much of the free food.
I ate so much free food, in fact, that I didn't have much room left for ice-cream! Darn that pulled-pork! Send that beef brisket to Hell! And shoot the delicious array of barbecue sauces in the kneecaps! I may not trust free food, but I sure as Hell will eat as much of it as I can (can you tell I was recently and will soon again be a college student?). I only have four days of access to free ice-cream remaining and I was wasting my appetite on "thank-you for all you do" food? I can have mediocre meat sandwiches anytime I want, but my frugal nature rarely allows me to loosen the purse strings enough to buy quality ice-cream! What was I thinking?! Well, isn't it obvious? I, clearly, wasn't thinking at all!
Now that it's coming down to my last few days at the ice-cream factory, nostalgia has started to kick in. I have such wonderful memories . . . of eating ice-cream right from the cartons . . . of roaming the factory to find what delicious treats I would be consuming that day . . . of co-workers gawking at my voracious ice-cream appetite . . . of mounds of wrappers laying empty and dead on the table before me in the wake of my gluttony . . .
The memories of the glory of free ice-cream will have to suffice. But, I assure you, I will be strong. I will not cry. Or, at least, I will never admit that I will number the tears and long for the olden times.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1 Vanilla and Brownie Waffle Cone, 1 Banana Split Waffle Cone, 1 Vanilla and Caramel Waffle Cone, 1 Rainbow Push-Up
Anyway, the morals of that story are 1) I don't trust bosses when they give us free food because it feels like they're trying to trick us into forgetting how much we hate our jobs, and 2) I ate way too much of the free food.
I ate so much free food, in fact, that I didn't have much room left for ice-cream! Darn that pulled-pork! Send that beef brisket to Hell! And shoot the delicious array of barbecue sauces in the kneecaps! I may not trust free food, but I sure as Hell will eat as much of it as I can (can you tell I was recently and will soon again be a college student?). I only have four days of access to free ice-cream remaining and I was wasting my appetite on "thank-you for all you do" food? I can have mediocre meat sandwiches anytime I want, but my frugal nature rarely allows me to loosen the purse strings enough to buy quality ice-cream! What was I thinking?! Well, isn't it obvious? I, clearly, wasn't thinking at all!
Now that it's coming down to my last few days at the ice-cream factory, nostalgia has started to kick in. I have such wonderful memories . . . of eating ice-cream right from the cartons . . . of roaming the factory to find what delicious treats I would be consuming that day . . . of co-workers gawking at my voracious ice-cream appetite . . . of mounds of wrappers laying empty and dead on the table before me in the wake of my gluttony . . .
The memories of the glory of free ice-cream will have to suffice. But, I assure you, I will be strong. I will not cry. Or, at least, I will never admit that I will number the tears and long for the olden times.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1 Vanilla and Brownie Waffle Cone, 1 Banana Split Waffle Cone, 1 Vanilla and Caramel Waffle Cone, 1 Rainbow Push-Up
17 July 2011
My Passionate French Accent
Every morning, the sanitation crews have a meeting where we discuss what time each production line is finished for the day and, subsequently, in which order we will be cleaning them. For whatever reason, our supervisors decided to give us a pep talk. The busy summer period is winding down, so I think they were trying to keep everyone's energy up.
Anyway, they kept saying that our job is the most important job in the factory. If we don't clean the machines thoroughly and properly, the ice-cream product could be contaminated, it could have to be thrown away, and we may not be able to fill merchant orders. Additionally, there is the fact that if we don't clean the machines as well as we should and a contaminated product slips through testing, someone could become seriously ill or even die.
They kept emphasizing how someone, specifically a child, could die as a result. One supervisor started getting really aggressive, but another one tried to bring the pep talk back into being motivational instead of overbearing. The aggressive supervisor caught onto this and switched his tune, saying that we were "artists" and "professionals" and that we needed to be "passionate" about what we do.
Passionate? That seems like a very strong word. I understand what he was trying to get across, that we need to take pride in what we do and do our best every day, but "passion" seems like a bit much. I sure don't wake up in the morning, thinking "I can't wait to go and clean today! It's my favorite thing to do in the whole wide world!" and I doubt anyone else does, either.
Anyway, I don't think the pep talk worked. After the meeting, everyone from sanitation went and collectively looked at the job board. When a need arises in different departments around the company, the job is posted on a board so people are aware of it and able to apply if they so desire. Well, it looked like everyone in sanitation is considering a different job. I thought that was hilarious. The pep talk backfired hardcore.
But maybe the pep talk wasn't a complete waste. I did try to clean more thoroughly, and I even made a song to help myself stay motivated. Each week, someone is assigned to clean the floor drains which are at each production line, and it just so happened to be my turn. So, while I was scrubbing the drains, I came up with this little jingle :
I go to the drain
With my bucket of bubbles
All the bacteria
Is in for some trouble
I'm passionate about what I do
Watch out, germs, you're dead
I'm coming for you
Furthering my attempt to inspire some passion in me, I sung this in a French accent. There is, perhaps, no other nation with such a passionate populus as the French, so I thought it was appropriate to try and channel their zeal through mimicking their accent. It didn't really work. It just helped me amuse myself. But I'll take what I can get.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/8 Gallon - Birthday Cake Ice-Cream, 1/4 Gallon - Cookies N Cream Ice-Cream, 2 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups, 2 Chocolate Crunch Bars
Anyway, they kept saying that our job is the most important job in the factory. If we don't clean the machines thoroughly and properly, the ice-cream product could be contaminated, it could have to be thrown away, and we may not be able to fill merchant orders. Additionally, there is the fact that if we don't clean the machines as well as we should and a contaminated product slips through testing, someone could become seriously ill or even die.
They kept emphasizing how someone, specifically a child, could die as a result. One supervisor started getting really aggressive, but another one tried to bring the pep talk back into being motivational instead of overbearing. The aggressive supervisor caught onto this and switched his tune, saying that we were "artists" and "professionals" and that we needed to be "passionate" about what we do.
Passionate? That seems like a very strong word. I understand what he was trying to get across, that we need to take pride in what we do and do our best every day, but "passion" seems like a bit much. I sure don't wake up in the morning, thinking "I can't wait to go and clean today! It's my favorite thing to do in the whole wide world!" and I doubt anyone else does, either.
Anyway, I don't think the pep talk worked. After the meeting, everyone from sanitation went and collectively looked at the job board. When a need arises in different departments around the company, the job is posted on a board so people are aware of it and able to apply if they so desire. Well, it looked like everyone in sanitation is considering a different job. I thought that was hilarious. The pep talk backfired hardcore.
But maybe the pep talk wasn't a complete waste. I did try to clean more thoroughly, and I even made a song to help myself stay motivated. Each week, someone is assigned to clean the floor drains which are at each production line, and it just so happened to be my turn. So, while I was scrubbing the drains, I came up with this little jingle :
I go to the drain
With my bucket of bubbles
All the bacteria
Is in for some trouble
I'm passionate about what I do
Watch out, germs, you're dead
I'm coming for you
Furthering my attempt to inspire some passion in me, I sung this in a French accent. There is, perhaps, no other nation with such a passionate populus as the French, so I thought it was appropriate to try and channel their zeal through mimicking their accent. It didn't really work. It just helped me amuse myself. But I'll take what I can get.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/8 Gallon - Birthday Cake Ice-Cream, 1/4 Gallon - Cookies N Cream Ice-Cream, 2 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups, 2 Chocolate Crunch Bars
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream)
13 July 2011
Silly Noise
Oh, goodness me. The pressure hoses I use to rinse the machines never stop giving me problems. On top of the issues I have previously shared with you (see In The Face), it would be a shame if I did not also explain how touchy the nozels of these hoses can be. Let me provide you with an example.
Today, I was assigned to clean a stairwell. It's a fairly small stairwell, but it is used frequently. Thus, while I was pre-rinsing, scrubbing, final rinsing, and squeegee-ing these stairs, which takes about ten minutes, 30 or 35 people used them. That averages out to 3 or 4 people a minute, or someone forcing me to pause my work and stand aside while they track new debris through the areas I had just cleaned about every fifteen to twenty seconds. Kind of frustrating.
Anyway, in order to pre-rinse the stairs, I had to grab one of these treacherous hoses and haul it all the way to the top of the stairwell. Now, these hoses are very heavy duty, and, thus, weigh a lot. It's not that it's not difficult for me to carry the hose, but I tell you this because when I got to the top of the stairs, I needed to set the hose down, but if I put it on the ground, it would have slid down the stairs and possibly tripped someone. So, being the genius I am, I decided to hook the the hose around the hand banister. I thought this a great idea. It's just that the way I hooked the hose around the banister forced the nozzle trigger to engage and send a thick spray of scalding water in a high arch down the stairwell . . . as two people were coming up.
It was a man and a woman. The man made no noise whatsoever, but the woman let out a loud whelp of surprise. Luckily, the two were just out of reach of the spray.
The man said my name in a shocked way and asked me what I was doing. Trying to diffuse my embarrassment by cracking a jock, I responded that he and the woman looked dirty and needed a shower and that I was just trying to keep the ice-cream from being contaminated by helping them clean up.
The woman scampered away before she could hear my joke and the man gave me a blank stare.
But I say it was all worth it just to hear that woman yelp. I might have to learn this woman's work schedule, figure out when she will use those stairs, and recreate this stair shower. But, of course, the next time I will have a video camera discretely documenting everything so I can put it on YouTube and the world will also be able to enjoy the silly noise this woman makes.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Tin Roof Sundae, 3 Ice-Cream Candy Bars, 2 Strawberry Crunch Bars
Today, I was assigned to clean a stairwell. It's a fairly small stairwell, but it is used frequently. Thus, while I was pre-rinsing, scrubbing, final rinsing, and squeegee-ing these stairs, which takes about ten minutes, 30 or 35 people used them. That averages out to 3 or 4 people a minute, or someone forcing me to pause my work and stand aside while they track new debris through the areas I had just cleaned about every fifteen to twenty seconds. Kind of frustrating.
Anyway, in order to pre-rinse the stairs, I had to grab one of these treacherous hoses and haul it all the way to the top of the stairwell. Now, these hoses are very heavy duty, and, thus, weigh a lot. It's not that it's not difficult for me to carry the hose, but I tell you this because when I got to the top of the stairs, I needed to set the hose down, but if I put it on the ground, it would have slid down the stairs and possibly tripped someone. So, being the genius I am, I decided to hook the the hose around the hand banister. I thought this a great idea. It's just that the way I hooked the hose around the banister forced the nozzle trigger to engage and send a thick spray of scalding water in a high arch down the stairwell . . . as two people were coming up.
It was a man and a woman. The man made no noise whatsoever, but the woman let out a loud whelp of surprise. Luckily, the two were just out of reach of the spray.
The man said my name in a shocked way and asked me what I was doing. Trying to diffuse my embarrassment by cracking a jock, I responded that he and the woman looked dirty and needed a shower and that I was just trying to keep the ice-cream from being contaminated by helping them clean up.
The woman scampered away before she could hear my joke and the man gave me a blank stare.
But I say it was all worth it just to hear that woman yelp. I might have to learn this woman's work schedule, figure out when she will use those stairs, and recreate this stair shower. But, of course, the next time I will have a video camera discretely documenting everything so I can put it on YouTube and the world will also be able to enjoy the silly noise this woman makes.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Tin Roof Sundae, 3 Ice-Cream Candy Bars, 2 Strawberry Crunch Bars
12 July 2011
The Ice-Cream Hell Tunnel
I have had many frustrations with my job at the ice-cream factory since it began, but I've tried to set them aside and put on a happy face. But now that I only have two and a half weeks left before I quit, the frustrations I've tried to keep to a minimum have been getting more difficult to ignore since I can see the light at the end of this ice-cream hell tunnel. Today, I came very close to walking out mid-shift. I almost stormed out of that place, never to return. The key word is "almost". I didn't quit, and today's entry will revolve around the reasons to quit and the reasons to keep working.
REASONS TO QUIT :
- I get water sprayed in my face all the time (see In The Face), and it gets very old.
- My feet are always wet and uncomfortable for some unknown reason (see The Mystery of the Wet Pants).
- I work with people that make me uncomfortable (see El Cholo).
- I don't technically need the money I would earn if I continued working since I have saved up quite a bit already and have enough to cover my living expenses during the coming school year thanks to those wonderful things we call federal and private student loans.
- I normally don't work this much in the summer. For me, summer is time to have fun and take trips. I haven't done any of that all summer because of this job.
- I have developed a video game purchasing addiction. Over the past few weeks, I kept buying video games on eBay for great prices and need to start playing them.
- I have hardly scratched the surface of my summer reading list.
- The protective glasses I am required to wear over my prescription glasses are too big and are constantly sliding down my face, forcing me to push about three hundred times a day.
- Said protective glasses hurt my forehead, bride of my nose, and ears all at the same time.
- Said protective glasses are constantly steaming up due to the hot water I have to spray.
- No one I have spoken to enjoys their job at the ice-cream factory and it's difficult to enjoy a job in such a negative atmosphere.
- I have been coming up with many ideas for short stories but have not had the time to work on them.
- I promised to make my brother a painting and need time to do that before I move.
- I could use more time to hunt for a job in Boston.
- It's always difficult to work at a job when you know you're quitting, especially when you're moving on to bigger and better things.
- My blog entries about the ice-cream factory have not been very popular. Readership has plummeted.
REASONS TO STAY :
- Even though the money isn't necessary, it would be nice to be just that much more financially secure.
- The free ice-cream.
After thinking about it, I have decided to work one more week and quit a week earlier than expected. Looking at my list, which is not comprehensive by any means, there are two categories the reasons can be separated into. A) Work suckiness, and B) Wanting to do other things. To be honest, I think both categories hold an even weight over my decision. The job sucks and I have many other things I would rather be doing. And, really, what is one week? Well, it's $400 to $450, but, eh. I'd rather be happy and accomplishing things rather than working all day and being miserable.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/8 Gallon Chocolate and Caramel Ice-Cream, 1/4 Gallon Birthday Cake Ice-Cream, 2 Strawberry Crunch Ice-Cream Bars, 1 Vanilla and Hot Fudge Waffle Cone, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Up
REASONS TO QUIT :
- I get water sprayed in my face all the time (see In The Face), and it gets very old.
- My feet are always wet and uncomfortable for some unknown reason (see The Mystery of the Wet Pants).
- I work with people that make me uncomfortable (see El Cholo).
- I don't technically need the money I would earn if I continued working since I have saved up quite a bit already and have enough to cover my living expenses during the coming school year thanks to those wonderful things we call federal and private student loans.
- I normally don't work this much in the summer. For me, summer is time to have fun and take trips. I haven't done any of that all summer because of this job.
- I have developed a video game purchasing addiction. Over the past few weeks, I kept buying video games on eBay for great prices and need to start playing them.
- I have hardly scratched the surface of my summer reading list.
- The protective glasses I am required to wear over my prescription glasses are too big and are constantly sliding down my face, forcing me to push about three hundred times a day.
- Said protective glasses hurt my forehead, bride of my nose, and ears all at the same time.
- Said protective glasses are constantly steaming up due to the hot water I have to spray.
- No one I have spoken to enjoys their job at the ice-cream factory and it's difficult to enjoy a job in such a negative atmosphere.
- I have been coming up with many ideas for short stories but have not had the time to work on them.
- I promised to make my brother a painting and need time to do that before I move.
- I could use more time to hunt for a job in Boston.
- It's always difficult to work at a job when you know you're quitting, especially when you're moving on to bigger and better things.
- My blog entries about the ice-cream factory have not been very popular. Readership has plummeted.
REASONS TO STAY :
- Even though the money isn't necessary, it would be nice to be just that much more financially secure.
- The free ice-cream.
After thinking about it, I have decided to work one more week and quit a week earlier than expected. Looking at my list, which is not comprehensive by any means, there are two categories the reasons can be separated into. A) Work suckiness, and B) Wanting to do other things. To be honest, I think both categories hold an even weight over my decision. The job sucks and I have many other things I would rather be doing. And, really, what is one week? Well, it's $400 to $450, but, eh. I'd rather be happy and accomplishing things rather than working all day and being miserable.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/8 Gallon Chocolate and Caramel Ice-Cream, 1/4 Gallon Birthday Cake Ice-Cream, 2 Strawberry Crunch Ice-Cream Bars, 1 Vanilla and Hot Fudge Waffle Cone, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Up
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
07 July 2011
Aw, Nuts
There are two production lines which I hate cleaning. Both of these make ice-cream treats which are topped with nuts. The nuts are the reason I hate cleaning these lines. Because, by the end of the shift, there are nuts everywhere. And I mean everywhere.
I am not assigned to regularly clean either of these machines, but I was unlucky enough to be recruited to do so the other day, and it took forever just to clean up all the nuts from off the floor, let alone the rest of machine.
In order to clean up the nuts, we kept spraying them towards a drain where they would get caught in the drain strainer. There were so many nuts that it filled the drain strainer numerous times, so many times that I completely filled up one of the five gallon buckets we lug around to put trash into and then some. It was ridiculous. By the time it was all said and done, there were enough nuts to fill up about seven gallons worth of bucket.
While I was wasting away my life cleaning up these nuts, I had an innovative idea which would save the company manpower and--most importantly--money. Rather than having employees be paid to clean up the nuts, we should have a pack of squirrels do it! It would be so simple!
Of course, we would have to keep them in a cage when they aren't working--it would be ridiculous to have squirrels running around the factory at all times--but all we would have to do is let them out when there are nuts which need to be cleaned up. I am pretty sure the squirrels would go crazy with delight and the nut-covered floor would be a swarm of furry tails for about fifty seconds before it was nutless. It would be awesome.
Issues of cleanliness aside, there are only two problems which I could forsee from implementing my squirrel plan. 1) Where would they hide the nuts? It would be likely that they would store them in all sorts of odd places. Someone, for example, might open a closet and then be buried in an avalanche of nuts. 2) The squirrels might be so crazed by the excess of nuts that they start fighting over the nuts even though they are plentiful. They might even form groups similar to gangs and begin waging wars that spiral out of control, resulting in territory wars, incessant fighting, and countless squirrel deaths.
Until I can work out these kinks, I will hold out on suggesting my nut cleaning solution to the managment.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
3/8 Gallon Chocolate Brownie Ice-Cream, 2 Strawberry Crunch Bars, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Up
I am not assigned to regularly clean either of these machines, but I was unlucky enough to be recruited to do so the other day, and it took forever just to clean up all the nuts from off the floor, let alone the rest of machine.
In order to clean up the nuts, we kept spraying them towards a drain where they would get caught in the drain strainer. There were so many nuts that it filled the drain strainer numerous times, so many times that I completely filled up one of the five gallon buckets we lug around to put trash into and then some. It was ridiculous. By the time it was all said and done, there were enough nuts to fill up about seven gallons worth of bucket.
While I was wasting away my life cleaning up these nuts, I had an innovative idea which would save the company manpower and--most importantly--money. Rather than having employees be paid to clean up the nuts, we should have a pack of squirrels do it! It would be so simple!
Of course, we would have to keep them in a cage when they aren't working--it would be ridiculous to have squirrels running around the factory at all times--but all we would have to do is let them out when there are nuts which need to be cleaned up. I am pretty sure the squirrels would go crazy with delight and the nut-covered floor would be a swarm of furry tails for about fifty seconds before it was nutless. It would be awesome.
Issues of cleanliness aside, there are only two problems which I could forsee from implementing my squirrel plan. 1) Where would they hide the nuts? It would be likely that they would store them in all sorts of odd places. Someone, for example, might open a closet and then be buried in an avalanche of nuts. 2) The squirrels might be so crazed by the excess of nuts that they start fighting over the nuts even though they are plentiful. They might even form groups similar to gangs and begin waging wars that spiral out of control, resulting in territory wars, incessant fighting, and countless squirrel deaths.
Until I can work out these kinks, I will hold out on suggesting my nut cleaning solution to the managment.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
3/8 Gallon Chocolate Brownie Ice-Cream, 2 Strawberry Crunch Bars, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Up
05 July 2011
The Mystery of the Wet Pants
For the past couple of weeks at work, I have been having a problem. My pants have been getting wet.
No, I haven't been habitually wetting myself. I only get wet from the knees down (including my pant legs and socks), and the wetness is nowhere near my crotch, thank goodness. I work with water all day long. I'm spraying it and walking around in it constantly, so getting somewhat wet should be expected. But what is confusing is that my pants and socks are guarded by tall rubber boots underneath plastic overalls, which should guarantee that no water makes it way inside. But, for whatever reason, it has been.
Being required to wear jeans, I tuck my pant legs inside of my boots. By mid-shift, I can feel the fabric around my knees growing wet. As the day continued, I can feel the wetness working its way downward as it saturates more and more of my pants. And then once my entire pant leg from the knee down is wet, my sock slowly shifts from dry to moist to completely wet. Sometimes, my socks become so wet that by the end of the day I will take off my boot and my feet and toes will be white and pruny and disgusting.
Afflicted with this discomfort on a daily basis, I have tried to figure out why this could be happening. Here are some of the theories I have come up with:
Theory 1 : My boot is leaking
- It seemed plausible, but when I thought about it, the wetness moves from the knee down. If the boot was leaking, my foot would be the first thing to become wet.
Theory 2 : The knees in my overalls had holes and were letting water in
- A quick inspection of the bright yellow overalls proved this wrong.
Theory 3 : When I kneel on the ground to clean something, water gets into the base of my overalls and then creeps up until it reaches my knee and soaks the fabric there
- This was a bit more complex than the first two theories, but it seemed even more plausible since I kneel on the ground to clean things on a regular basis. To see if this was correct, I stopped kneeling on the ground so much. I couldn't avoid it entirely, but I did a pretty good job at staying busy with things that did not require kneeling. Regardless, by the end of the day, my pant legs and socks were sopping wet.
Theory 4 : MEDICAL MARVELS
- OPTION A - My knees are peeing on me during the work day. As this doesn't seem too likely, I laid this theory to rest.
- OPTION B - After telling my co-workers about my wet pant legs, they said it was probably because my legs were sweating. Sweating is a daily occurrence with sanitation employees because we are wearing plastic protective gear while working around scalding hot water. But, I thought to myself, I don't think if I've ever seen my legs sweat. Are legs capable of sweating? As it turns out, they are. This I learned thanks to Google and about five minutes. I found an entire message forum with multiple people complaining of sweating legs, but all of these seemed to happen while they were asleep. Most of them even said that their leg sweating was so dramatic that their sheets were soaked in the morning or that the wet feeling woke them up in the middle of the night. Disgusting. If you want to check out this caravan of freak show comments, and I recommend you do, click here Sweaty Leg Discussion Forum. The progression of the discussion is kind of funny. At one point, someone says that he knows that two causes of excessive sweating are cancer and HIV. Wow! Let's not jump to any dire conclusions.
As of the moment, The Mystery of the Wet Pants remains unsolved. It may be sweat. It may be leaky protective gear. It may be that water is sneaking up my pant legs. It may be a combination of all three or even an unpredictable fourth option. Who know? I suspect this would even stump the Hardy Boys. Probably not that Nancy Drew, though. She's really sharp. But I'd never tell her about my wet pant legs. I'd be too embarrassed to admit to potentially having a sweaty leg problem to such a hottie. All I'm going to say, though, is that if I get trench foot, the company I'm working for is replacing my useless and decaying feet with new bionic versions that are super magnetic so I can walk on steel walls.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
3 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups, 1/4 Gallon Cookies and Cream Ice-Cream, 1 Vanilla Bar in Chocolate, 1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar
No, I haven't been habitually wetting myself. I only get wet from the knees down (including my pant legs and socks), and the wetness is nowhere near my crotch, thank goodness. I work with water all day long. I'm spraying it and walking around in it constantly, so getting somewhat wet should be expected. But what is confusing is that my pants and socks are guarded by tall rubber boots underneath plastic overalls, which should guarantee that no water makes it way inside. But, for whatever reason, it has been.
Being required to wear jeans, I tuck my pant legs inside of my boots. By mid-shift, I can feel the fabric around my knees growing wet. As the day continued, I can feel the wetness working its way downward as it saturates more and more of my pants. And then once my entire pant leg from the knee down is wet, my sock slowly shifts from dry to moist to completely wet. Sometimes, my socks become so wet that by the end of the day I will take off my boot and my feet and toes will be white and pruny and disgusting.
Afflicted with this discomfort on a daily basis, I have tried to figure out why this could be happening. Here are some of the theories I have come up with:
Theory 1 : My boot is leaking
- It seemed plausible, but when I thought about it, the wetness moves from the knee down. If the boot was leaking, my foot would be the first thing to become wet.
Theory 2 : The knees in my overalls had holes and were letting water in
- A quick inspection of the bright yellow overalls proved this wrong.
Theory 3 : When I kneel on the ground to clean something, water gets into the base of my overalls and then creeps up until it reaches my knee and soaks the fabric there
- This was a bit more complex than the first two theories, but it seemed even more plausible since I kneel on the ground to clean things on a regular basis. To see if this was correct, I stopped kneeling on the ground so much. I couldn't avoid it entirely, but I did a pretty good job at staying busy with things that did not require kneeling. Regardless, by the end of the day, my pant legs and socks were sopping wet.
Theory 4 : MEDICAL MARVELS
- OPTION A - My knees are peeing on me during the work day. As this doesn't seem too likely, I laid this theory to rest.
- OPTION B - After telling my co-workers about my wet pant legs, they said it was probably because my legs were sweating. Sweating is a daily occurrence with sanitation employees because we are wearing plastic protective gear while working around scalding hot water. But, I thought to myself, I don't think if I've ever seen my legs sweat. Are legs capable of sweating? As it turns out, they are. This I learned thanks to Google and about five minutes. I found an entire message forum with multiple people complaining of sweating legs, but all of these seemed to happen while they were asleep. Most of them even said that their leg sweating was so dramatic that their sheets were soaked in the morning or that the wet feeling woke them up in the middle of the night. Disgusting. If you want to check out this caravan of freak show comments, and I recommend you do, click here Sweaty Leg Discussion Forum. The progression of the discussion is kind of funny. At one point, someone says that he knows that two causes of excessive sweating are cancer and HIV. Wow! Let's not jump to any dire conclusions.
As of the moment, The Mystery of the Wet Pants remains unsolved. It may be sweat. It may be leaky protective gear. It may be that water is sneaking up my pant legs. It may be a combination of all three or even an unpredictable fourth option. Who know? I suspect this would even stump the Hardy Boys. Probably not that Nancy Drew, though. She's really sharp. But I'd never tell her about my wet pant legs. I'd be too embarrassed to admit to potentially having a sweaty leg problem to such a hottie. All I'm going to say, though, is that if I get trench foot, the company I'm working for is replacing my useless and decaying feet with new bionic versions that are super magnetic so I can walk on steel walls.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
3 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups, 1/4 Gallon Cookies and Cream Ice-Cream, 1 Vanilla Bar in Chocolate, 1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar
02 July 2011
Shreds of Pride
One of the steps of cleaning a production line at the ice-cream factory is running "The Power Scrubber". It's like a floor burnisher, except it's meant for scrubbing soapy floors instead of polishing dry ones. I've used floor burnishers before, so I thought I was familiar with the machine, but when I started it up, it nearly jerked free of my hands because it was so powerful. And not only was it powerful, but it also functions in an odd way. By either lifting slightly up or pushing slightly down on the handle, The Power Scrubber will either move to the right or the left while also trying to dart forward, forcing the operator to have a firm hold and a ready stance to keep from losing control of the machine or being physically harmed.
The first time I used the machine, I could hardly keep the thing under control. I tried to make it go a little to the left and--BANG!--right into a freezer. Then I tried to make it go left-BANG!--it smashed into the legs of a stand. This happened repeatedly, all the while I was trying to not slip or be pulled off my feet. And what made it even worse was that my co-workers noticed the difficulty I was having. They must have also been discussing it, too, because, later on that day, a manager who hadn't been present during my first Power Scrubber fiasco approached me and said "I hear The Power Scrubber kicked your butt" to which I replied "I think I gave it a run for its money." The manager laughed at the response, nodded as if he didn't believe me, patted me on the back in sympathy, and walked away. Jerk.
Since then, I have learned how to control--or at least have better control of--The Power Scrubber, but I still have occasional issues. The most frequent problem involves running over the power cord. When I reach the end of the cord length and try to double back, I sometimes run it over. The powerful spinning scrubber sucks the cord underneath and twists it around the big green scrubbing pad, jolting it out of my hands and making it hop about as if it is having a violent seizure. But, hey, it's not practically dragging me across the floor anymore. I'll take what shreds of my pride I have left and work with that.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Up (I'm not losing my love of ice-cream. I only worked three hours today. Don't worry. I am still obsessive.)
The first time I used the machine, I could hardly keep the thing under control. I tried to make it go a little to the left and--BANG!--right into a freezer. Then I tried to make it go left-BANG!--it smashed into the legs of a stand. This happened repeatedly, all the while I was trying to not slip or be pulled off my feet. And what made it even worse was that my co-workers noticed the difficulty I was having. They must have also been discussing it, too, because, later on that day, a manager who hadn't been present during my first Power Scrubber fiasco approached me and said "I hear The Power Scrubber kicked your butt" to which I replied "I think I gave it a run for its money." The manager laughed at the response, nodded as if he didn't believe me, patted me on the back in sympathy, and walked away. Jerk.
Since then, I have learned how to control--or at least have better control of--The Power Scrubber, but I still have occasional issues. The most frequent problem involves running over the power cord. When I reach the end of the cord length and try to double back, I sometimes run it over. The powerful spinning scrubber sucks the cord underneath and twists it around the big green scrubbing pad, jolting it out of my hands and making it hop about as if it is having a violent seizure. But, hey, it's not practically dragging me across the floor anymore. I'll take what shreds of my pride I have left and work with that.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Up (I'm not losing my love of ice-cream. I only worked three hours today. Don't worry. I am still obsessive.)
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
29 June 2011
Strawberry Snow
I missed what may have been one of the most amazing sights at the ice-cream factory. I am not sure when it happened, but some of the sanitation veterans were talking today about it.
When making ice-cream, there is usually more than one machine involved. There is one machine which pumps the actual ice-cream and additional machines for the revel (flavored sauce) and/or fruit and/or chocolate chunks and/or brownie pieces and/or whatever. All of the ingredients are then combined in one machine and then pumped into cartons.
That explained, one day, strawberry ice-cream was being made. This required a couple of different machines, one of which (called a fruit feeder) pumped the strawberries into the actual ice-cream. For whatever reason, someone opened the top of the fruit feeder while it was running, and--BOOM!
I don't think there was an actual BOOM noise, but the machine did shoot strawberries everywhere. There was a series of pipes and conveyor belts over this production line, and the strawberries just coated everything and then dripped down onto all of the machinery below, kind of like it was snowing strawberries . . . or raining chunky period blood. Either way, if I had been there, I would have run underneath the dripping strawberry goodness with my mouth wide open to catch as much of it as I could. That would have been enjoyable. What would have not been enjoyable would have been the cleaning up the mess--which the sanitation crew did . . . for several hours afterward.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Tin Roof Ice-Cream, 1 Toffee Ice-Cream Bar, 1 Caramel Ice-Cream Cone, 1 Cookie Ice-Cream Sandwich
When making ice-cream, there is usually more than one machine involved. There is one machine which pumps the actual ice-cream and additional machines for the revel (flavored sauce) and/or fruit and/or chocolate chunks and/or brownie pieces and/or whatever. All of the ingredients are then combined in one machine and then pumped into cartons.
That explained, one day, strawberry ice-cream was being made. This required a couple of different machines, one of which (called a fruit feeder) pumped the strawberries into the actual ice-cream. For whatever reason, someone opened the top of the fruit feeder while it was running, and--BOOM!
I don't think there was an actual BOOM noise, but the machine did shoot strawberries everywhere. There was a series of pipes and conveyor belts over this production line, and the strawberries just coated everything and then dripped down onto all of the machinery below, kind of like it was snowing strawberries . . . or raining chunky period blood. Either way, if I had been there, I would have run underneath the dripping strawberry goodness with my mouth wide open to catch as much of it as I could. That would have been enjoyable. What would have not been enjoyable would have been the cleaning up the mess--which the sanitation crew did . . . for several hours afterward.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
1/4 Gallon - Tin Roof Ice-Cream, 1 Toffee Ice-Cream Bar, 1 Caramel Ice-Cream Cone, 1 Cookie Ice-Cream Sandwich
27 June 2011
Restrain That Joy
The other day, I was helping a different sanitation crew clean one of their production lines. One of the crew members, who was an older gentleman, approached me and asked how I like the job thus far. I responded with a generic "It's okay" and then was asked if I was going to try and switch from being temporary help to full-time. I answered that I would not because I will be going to go to graduate school this fall.
The man shook his head and told me how he had been working sanitation at the ice-cream plant for over eighteen years. He said that he had a lot of money saved up in the bank, offered a resigned shrugged, and then added "But I'm miserable. I'm here all the time. I never see my wife. Money isn't everything."
I've previously written about how I have yet to meet a single person who enjoys their job at the ice-cream factory. Some quotes from my co-workers include "I've been here seven years. Seven years too long.", "I need to get out of this s***-hole.", and even a bold "I hate this place."
It's ironic how during orientation the speakers focused on how eating ice-cream makes people so happy, yet the means to such an end make so many people unhappy. They even went so far as to say that we were entering the business of producing "unrestrained joy"--which may not be the exact phrase, but it was something horribly cheesy like that--but I doubt that even they felt any of the "unrestrained joy" to which they referred.
Maybe a part of the problem is that they don't restrain the joy. It all gushes out of the factory and leaks away in the gutter, leaving all of the employees bone dry miserable. For Pete's sake, restrain some of that joy and keep it for yourself and your employees!
As for me, I may have my frustrations with the job--being sprayed in the face all the time (see In The Face), obnoxious co-workers (see El Cholo), and constant heat and wetness--but the $11.00/hr and the free ice-cream make up for it all--even though I have developed a stomach problem (see The Issue). It's also comforting to know that July 30th will be my last day at this job. Then I have three weeks of hanging out followed by a big move and graduate school to look forward to. If I didn't have that escape route, I don't know what I'd do. Probably look for another job.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1/8 Gallon - Tin Roof-like Ice-Cream, 2 Chocolate Crunch Bars, 2 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars
The man shook his head and told me how he had been working sanitation at the ice-cream plant for over eighteen years. He said that he had a lot of money saved up in the bank, offered a resigned shrugged, and then added "But I'm miserable. I'm here all the time. I never see my wife. Money isn't everything."
I've previously written about how I have yet to meet a single person who enjoys their job at the ice-cream factory. Some quotes from my co-workers include "I've been here seven years. Seven years too long.", "I need to get out of this s***-hole.", and even a bold "I hate this place."
It's ironic how during orientation the speakers focused on how eating ice-cream makes people so happy, yet the means to such an end make so many people unhappy. They even went so far as to say that we were entering the business of producing "unrestrained joy"--which may not be the exact phrase, but it was something horribly cheesy like that--but I doubt that even they felt any of the "unrestrained joy" to which they referred.
Maybe a part of the problem is that they don't restrain the joy. It all gushes out of the factory and leaks away in the gutter, leaving all of the employees bone dry miserable. For Pete's sake, restrain some of that joy and keep it for yourself and your employees!
As for me, I may have my frustrations with the job--being sprayed in the face all the time (see In The Face), obnoxious co-workers (see El Cholo), and constant heat and wetness--but the $11.00/hr and the free ice-cream make up for it all--even though I have developed a stomach problem (see The Issue). It's also comforting to know that July 30th will be my last day at this job. Then I have three weeks of hanging out followed by a big move and graduate school to look forward to. If I didn't have that escape route, I don't know what I'd do. Probably look for another job.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1/8 Gallon - Tin Roof-like Ice-Cream, 2 Chocolate Crunch Bars, 2 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
25 June 2011
Crazy Homeless Germaphobe
I am kind of a dork. It's really not a secret, and, if you don't know me personally, you have probably guessed as much by now judging by my blog entries. But I am about to take you even deeper into my nerdiness. Hold on.
At the ice-cream factory, there are actually two separate buildings, a large one and a small one. The larger building holds all but one production line. This lone production line is in the second, smaller building which is really only big enough to house that one line and the necessary mixture tanks, freezers, etc. Well, it just so happens that the sanitation crew I am on is assigned to clean this outcast production line.
Now, there are two ways to get to this separate building, one is by weaving through a series of rooms in the main factory (first via a production line, then a hallway which has been collecting random maintenance things, then the boiler room, then "the warm up" room for the freezer employees, then a cooled hallway which leads into our enormous storage freezer, then a loading/storage area) before finally leaving the building and then walking about ten feet to the second, much smaller building. The second way to get to the other building is by completely leaving the first and walking along one side of it, turning a corner, and then walking down another side of it.
On nicer days, I prefer to take the second, outside route. Not only does it provide me with exposure to pleasant weather, it also lets me pretend that I'm a spaceman.
Working in a factory, I am exposed to loud machines all day long. Thus, to protect my hearing, I wear earplugs. Wearing earplugs really lets you hear yourself inside of your own head, especially your breathing. But ESPECIALLY your own breathing when you make it a little louder and a little more labored than usual. You know, kind of like a scuba diver or an astronaut or Darth Vader.
So, while walking outside, dressed in all of my sanitation protective equipment (bump cap, yellow coveralls, plastic gloves, beard net, hair net, goggles, big rubber boots), I make breathing noises like a spaceman walking across a desolate alien planet. I even walk slower than usual so as to compliment the inner-cranium acoustics with movement similar to low-gravity movement--giving my illusion a double whammy.
Another worthy note : The factory where I work is actually situated between the downtown and a residential area. So, it's not completely unusual to see random people walking through the neighborhood across the street as you make your way to the second building (if you are using the outside route), and I am pretty sure there are a number of people who have heard me making space breathing noises while walking slowly. I sincerely hope that they do not realize that I am just a dork using his childish, overactive imagination. They may think I am having breathing difficulties. Or they may think I am a crazy homeless germaphobe. Hey, we might as well dream big.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1/2 Gallon Hot Fudge Sundae Ice-Cream, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups
At the ice-cream factory, there are actually two separate buildings, a large one and a small one. The larger building holds all but one production line. This lone production line is in the second, smaller building which is really only big enough to house that one line and the necessary mixture tanks, freezers, etc. Well, it just so happens that the sanitation crew I am on is assigned to clean this outcast production line.
Now, there are two ways to get to this separate building, one is by weaving through a series of rooms in the main factory (first via a production line, then a hallway which has been collecting random maintenance things, then the boiler room, then "the warm up" room for the freezer employees, then a cooled hallway which leads into our enormous storage freezer, then a loading/storage area) before finally leaving the building and then walking about ten feet to the second, much smaller building. The second way to get to the other building is by completely leaving the first and walking along one side of it, turning a corner, and then walking down another side of it.
On nicer days, I prefer to take the second, outside route. Not only does it provide me with exposure to pleasant weather, it also lets me pretend that I'm a spaceman.
Working in a factory, I am exposed to loud machines all day long. Thus, to protect my hearing, I wear earplugs. Wearing earplugs really lets you hear yourself inside of your own head, especially your breathing. But ESPECIALLY your own breathing when you make it a little louder and a little more labored than usual. You know, kind of like a scuba diver or an astronaut or Darth Vader.
So, while walking outside, dressed in all of my sanitation protective equipment (bump cap, yellow coveralls, plastic gloves, beard net, hair net, goggles, big rubber boots), I make breathing noises like a spaceman walking across a desolate alien planet. I even walk slower than usual so as to compliment the inner-cranium acoustics with movement similar to low-gravity movement--giving my illusion a double whammy.
Another worthy note : The factory where I work is actually situated between the downtown and a residential area. So, it's not completely unusual to see random people walking through the neighborhood across the street as you make your way to the second building (if you are using the outside route), and I am pretty sure there are a number of people who have heard me making space breathing noises while walking slowly. I sincerely hope that they do not realize that I am just a dork using his childish, overactive imagination. They may think I am having breathing difficulties. Or they may think I am a crazy homeless germaphobe. Hey, we might as well dream big.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1/2 Gallon Hot Fudge Sundae Ice-Cream, 2 Ice-Cream Candy Bars, 1 Orange Sherbet Push-Ups
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
22 June 2011
Douche Bag Of The Month
The other day, a man from a different sanitation crew was meddling in my crew's affairs. He was standing around in our work area, far away from where he was assigned to work, talking to a manager about how my crew could execute a special, one-time assignment more efficiently. Yeah. How about this for efficiency--STOP STANDING AROUND AND GO DO YOUR OWN JOB!
Other than that, this man has never done anything to me, but I don't have the best impression of him. He seems trashy (judging by the subject matter of his converastions and his Godsmack tattoo) and he is racist--and, I must add, misinformed in his racism (according to him, white men are supposed to have larger penises than black men). He also talks in a way that makes me wonder if he is inbred. I have a strong desire to ask him if he is, to just walk up to him and say "Hey. Are you inbred?", but I doubt that the HR department would let me get away with that. And to add to the inbred illusion, I think he is missing the majority--if not all--of his teeth (I've been trying to get a discrete look inside of his mouth to get a tooth count, but that's a difficult thing to do).
Anyway, the other day, everyone in the sanitation department was given a slip of paper upon which they were told to write down the name of the person who they would like to nominate as Sanitation Employee of the Month. Today, the results were revealed. And it was no other than Mr. My-Daddy-Can-Beat-Up-Your-Daddy-Because-My-Daddy's-Not-Only-My-Daddy-He's-My-Brother-And-My-Cousin-Too.
I found these results shocking because 1) he was voted into this position by his peers, meaning that a slew of people thought he deserved the title and 2) this was the second month running that he was voted Sanitation Employee of the Month.
After the announcement, he thanked everyone as graciously as a crude, (most likely) inbred man can and said he appreciated it a three or four times, as if it meant a lot to him. And maybe it did mean a lot to him, but I think it's all a joke. All he got was a piece of paper. There was no monetary reward or granting of a special parking space. So, really, what good is this distinguishment? Oh, I know. It got us out of five minutes of work. And, for that, I am grateful.
Now, I don't know this potentially inbred man, and maybe all of the interactions I've had with him are not accurate impressions of his character. Maybe he's a hard, competent worker. Maybe he has earned the respect and friendship of his co-workers. I don't know. I don't care. To me, he's just another douche bag I have to ignore. The Douche Bag of the Month, even. Maybe I should print him out a little piece of paper for that and give it to him. He can hang it up in his locker, or, better yet, frame it and put it on his wall at home.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
3 Strawberry Crunch Bars, 1/4 Gallon - Strawberry Shortcake
Other than that, this man has never done anything to me, but I don't have the best impression of him. He seems trashy (judging by the subject matter of his converastions and his Godsmack tattoo) and he is racist--and, I must add, misinformed in his racism (according to him, white men are supposed to have larger penises than black men). He also talks in a way that makes me wonder if he is inbred. I have a strong desire to ask him if he is, to just walk up to him and say "Hey. Are you inbred?", but I doubt that the HR department would let me get away with that. And to add to the inbred illusion, I think he is missing the majority--if not all--of his teeth (I've been trying to get a discrete look inside of his mouth to get a tooth count, but that's a difficult thing to do).
Anyway, the other day, everyone in the sanitation department was given a slip of paper upon which they were told to write down the name of the person who they would like to nominate as Sanitation Employee of the Month. Today, the results were revealed. And it was no other than Mr. My-Daddy-Can-Beat-Up-Your-Daddy-Because-My-Daddy's-Not-Only-My-Daddy-He's-My-Brother-And-My-Cousin-Too.
I found these results shocking because 1) he was voted into this position by his peers, meaning that a slew of people thought he deserved the title and 2) this was the second month running that he was voted Sanitation Employee of the Month.
After the announcement, he thanked everyone as graciously as a crude, (most likely) inbred man can and said he appreciated it a three or four times, as if it meant a lot to him. And maybe it did mean a lot to him, but I think it's all a joke. All he got was a piece of paper. There was no monetary reward or granting of a special parking space. So, really, what good is this distinguishment? Oh, I know. It got us out of five minutes of work. And, for that, I am grateful.
Now, I don't know this potentially inbred man, and maybe all of the interactions I've had with him are not accurate impressions of his character. Maybe he's a hard, competent worker. Maybe he has earned the respect and friendship of his co-workers. I don't know. I don't care. To me, he's just another douche bag I have to ignore. The Douche Bag of the Month, even. Maybe I should print him out a little piece of paper for that and give it to him. He can hang it up in his locker, or, better yet, frame it and put it on his wall at home.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
3 Strawberry Crunch Bars, 1/4 Gallon - Strawberry Shortcake
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
20 June 2011
In The Face
Being in sanitation, I spray high-pressure hoses all the live-long day. And during any given day, I spray myself in the face at least five times. There are various reasons for this, which I will list in order of frequency.
REASONS I SPRAY MYSELF IN THE FACE :
1) I try to spray the hose, but the nozzle is turned the wrong way and it sprays me in the face.
2) I drop the hose, and it sprays up at me and gets me in the face.
3) The hose becomes kinked and I attempt to twist the kink out of it. I normally succeed, but I also normally spray myself in the face.
4) I try to spray the hose with one hand and move something with the other hand. My wet rubber glove slips on the hose nozzle and it twists and gets me in the face.
5) I spray some piece of machinery, the water bounces back and gets me in the face.
6) I reach into a machine with a hose, turn it upwards, and try to spray the top of the inside of the machine. I end up spraying too close to the opening of the machine and the jet of water comes out and gets me in the face.
On top of that, I must not neglect to mention another reason I get sprayed in the face--although, this one is not my fault. To clean a machine, an entire sanitation crew works on it at the same time, and it is very often that we don't see each other from across the machine. We go ahead and spray a certain area, but the water or chemical shoots through the machine and gets the other worker, usually in the face. It seems like you get sprayed in the face 90% of the time as opposed to getting your shoulder or leg doused for whatever reason it may be. It's great.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake : As revealed in a previous blog entry (see The Issue), I have been coerced into ceasing my strict ice-cream only diet while at work. Today was the first day of eating actual food while at work, and I am glad to report that the issue did not arise today. That, however, did not deter me from eating a moderate (meaning, moderate for me).
2 Rainbow Sherbert Push-up Pops, 1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar, 1 Popsicle, 1 Strawberry Crunch Bar, 1 Strawberry Fruit Bar
REASONS I SPRAY MYSELF IN THE FACE :
1) I try to spray the hose, but the nozzle is turned the wrong way and it sprays me in the face.
2) I drop the hose, and it sprays up at me and gets me in the face.
3) The hose becomes kinked and I attempt to twist the kink out of it. I normally succeed, but I also normally spray myself in the face.
4) I try to spray the hose with one hand and move something with the other hand. My wet rubber glove slips on the hose nozzle and it twists and gets me in the face.
5) I spray some piece of machinery, the water bounces back and gets me in the face.
6) I reach into a machine with a hose, turn it upwards, and try to spray the top of the inside of the machine. I end up spraying too close to the opening of the machine and the jet of water comes out and gets me in the face.
On top of that, I must not neglect to mention another reason I get sprayed in the face--although, this one is not my fault. To clean a machine, an entire sanitation crew works on it at the same time, and it is very often that we don't see each other from across the machine. We go ahead and spray a certain area, but the water or chemical shoots through the machine and gets the other worker, usually in the face. It seems like you get sprayed in the face 90% of the time as opposed to getting your shoulder or leg doused for whatever reason it may be. It's great.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake : As revealed in a previous blog entry (see The Issue), I have been coerced into ceasing my strict ice-cream only diet while at work. Today was the first day of eating actual food while at work, and I am glad to report that the issue did not arise today. That, however, did not deter me from eating a moderate (meaning, moderate for me).
2 Rainbow Sherbert Push-up Pops, 1 Ice-Cream Candy Bar, 1 Popsicle, 1 Strawberry Crunch Bar, 1 Strawberry Fruit Bar
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
17 June 2011
The Issue
I am afraid I may need to stop eating so much ice-cream.
For the past two and a half weeks since I have been working in the ice-cream plant, I have been eating nothing but ice-cream and ice-cream treats for lunch and on my breaks.
Today, I went about my lunch as usual. I dished myself a large serving of ice-cream, finished that off, then ate a toffee ice-cream bar. It wasn't too long after returning to work that I began to experience some stomach pain. I won't go into detail, but I took care of business and continued working. It wasn't until after my last break of the day (during which I ate a second unhealthy amount of ice-cream along with a second toffee ice-cream bar), when I experienced additional stomach pain that I began to see the pattern. The very disappointing pattern.
I was somewhat expecting this, or something like this, to happen. I mean, it is not a good idea to daily gorge on ice-cream. I recognize that. But I was just hoping this issue wouldn't arise so soon.
I suppose the smart thing to do would be to only eat ice-cream as dessert rather than as appetizers and the main course. Lame.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1/2 Gallon - Cookie Dough ice-cream, 2 toffee ice-cream bars
For the past two and a half weeks since I have been working in the ice-cream plant, I have been eating nothing but ice-cream and ice-cream treats for lunch and on my breaks.
Today, I went about my lunch as usual. I dished myself a large serving of ice-cream, finished that off, then ate a toffee ice-cream bar. It wasn't too long after returning to work that I began to experience some stomach pain. I won't go into detail, but I took care of business and continued working. It wasn't until after my last break of the day (during which I ate a second unhealthy amount of ice-cream along with a second toffee ice-cream bar), when I experienced additional stomach pain that I began to see the pattern. The very disappointing pattern.
I was somewhat expecting this, or something like this, to happen. I mean, it is not a good idea to daily gorge on ice-cream. I recognize that. But I was just hoping this issue wouldn't arise so soon.
I suppose the smart thing to do would be to only eat ice-cream as dessert rather than as appetizers and the main course. Lame.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake
1/2 Gallon - Cookie Dough ice-cream, 2 toffee ice-cream bars
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
15 June 2011
The Saddest Thing
Producing a safe product is one of the highest priorities at the ice-cream factory where I work. But in order to do this, there seems to be a lot of waste as a result.
As you should already be aware, I am in the sanitation department. This means that I clean the ice-cream mixers and machines. Of course, the cleaning process is done with chemicals. And eve though we completely rinse away all of the chemicals we use, we take extra precautions to make sure that no residue makes it into our ice-cream product. We, 1) have an inspector inspect the equipment we have just cleaned to make sure we have cleaned it properly, and 2) we throw away the entire first batch of ice-cream after a machine has been cleaned, thus guaranteeing that any residue is long gone if it had, by some freak accident, been missed.
This first run of ice-cream is simply thrown into big waste baskets and then disposed of. The disposal, however, is not always done in the most timely of manners. A lot of the time, several of these large trash cans are collected in a certain area where they wait to be taken care of.
I pass this area often and can't help but look at all of that wasted ice-cream and/or ice-cream treats. It's heart-breaking. One day, there was a large number of barrels waiting to be thrown out. I took a moment to count them and there were twenty-three! Can you imagine all of that ice-cream, just melting into worthless puddles of formerly delicious goo? It's a travesty.
Now, I hate wasting food, but I especially hate wasting ice-cream. Sometimes, when I see the ice-cream waiting to be thrown out, I have these . . . urges. They vary, the urges, but they tend to play along the lines of thrusting my arms shoulder-deep into the melting ice-cream and then raising my gooey hands over my head and screaming "YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN ME!" into the heavens. With equal frequency, these urges prod me to begin frantically grabbing handful after handful of ice-cream and shoving as much of it as I can into my mouth before I am pulled me away and forcibly restrained, possibly sedated. Or, if I am feeling noble, I could sneak the barrels out a side door and then dispense the ice-cream to orphans, potentially red-headed ones that frequently sing about the sun coming out tomorrow. What fun executing any of those scenarios would be. If only.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake:
2/5 gallon Rocky Road ice-cream, 1 orange sherbet square, 3 fudge bars, 1/8 gallon of neapolitan ice-cream
As you should already be aware, I am in the sanitation department. This means that I clean the ice-cream mixers and machines. Of course, the cleaning process is done with chemicals. And eve though we completely rinse away all of the chemicals we use, we take extra precautions to make sure that no residue makes it into our ice-cream product. We, 1) have an inspector inspect the equipment we have just cleaned to make sure we have cleaned it properly, and 2) we throw away the entire first batch of ice-cream after a machine has been cleaned, thus guaranteeing that any residue is long gone if it had, by some freak accident, been missed.
This first run of ice-cream is simply thrown into big waste baskets and then disposed of. The disposal, however, is not always done in the most timely of manners. A lot of the time, several of these large trash cans are collected in a certain area where they wait to be taken care of.
I pass this area often and can't help but look at all of that wasted ice-cream and/or ice-cream treats. It's heart-breaking. One day, there was a large number of barrels waiting to be thrown out. I took a moment to count them and there were twenty-three! Can you imagine all of that ice-cream, just melting into worthless puddles of formerly delicious goo? It's a travesty.
Now, I hate wasting food, but I especially hate wasting ice-cream. Sometimes, when I see the ice-cream waiting to be thrown out, I have these . . . urges. They vary, the urges, but they tend to play along the lines of thrusting my arms shoulder-deep into the melting ice-cream and then raising my gooey hands over my head and screaming "YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN ME!" into the heavens. With equal frequency, these urges prod me to begin frantically grabbing handful after handful of ice-cream and shoving as much of it as I can into my mouth before I am pulled me away and forcibly restrained, possibly sedated. Or, if I am feeling noble, I could sneak the barrels out a side door and then dispense the ice-cream to orphans, potentially red-headed ones that frequently sing about the sun coming out tomorrow. What fun executing any of those scenarios would be. If only.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake:
2/5 gallon Rocky Road ice-cream, 1 orange sherbet square, 3 fudge bars, 1/8 gallon of neapolitan ice-cream
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
13 June 2011
Co-Worker Freak Show
Over the past two weeks while working at the ice-cream factory, I've been struck by a few of my co-workers. But when I say "struck", I don't mean I couldn't help thinking "Wow, this person is interesting or smart or fun to be around." Rather, I mean "struck" in the "Wow, this person looks like . . ." To be honest, it's kind of like a side show. Is that wrong for me to say? Well, of course it is, but I have to entertain myself--and you--somehow, right? So, here we go. Step right on up to the Co-Worker Freak Show!
Flipper-saurus Rex : I feel somewhat horrible about writing this guy, but I just have to share it. One of my co-workers has a physical deformity where his forearms are abnormally short and his wrists seem to be too long and have a couple extra joints. The other day, I heard someone refer to his arms as "flippers", and I can see that, but I think the shortness of his arms makes him look more like a T-rex. But then it hit me! He is not one or the other. He is the love child of both --the offspring of a dolphin and a T-rex, making him the Flipper-saurus Rex.
Mario : All I need to say about this guy is that he looks exactly like Mario, only he's hispanic instead of Italian. Sadly, he has to wear the necessary safety equipment and not the suit pictured on the left because neither he nor the ice-cream factory is that awesome.
The Tape Worm : There is one guy who is insanely tall and insanely thin that he looks like a large worm who has learned to walk in an upright position . . . and wear human clothing . . . and work at an ice-cream factory. I haven't bothered talking to him, but I have since started referring to him as The Tape Worm. Even his face is bland, kind of like what I imagine what a worm's face would look like.
And I musn't forget to mention El Cholo. I won't go into great detail about him here as I've already blogged about him, but, if you haven't read about this jerk, I would check out El Cholo immediately.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
2 strawberry crunch bars, 2 fudgesicles, 1 frozen yogurt square, 5 ice-cream candy bars, 1 orange sherbert push-up
Flipper-saurus Rex : I feel somewhat horrible about writing this guy, but I just have to share it. One of my co-workers has a physical deformity where his forearms are abnormally short and his wrists seem to be too long and have a couple extra joints. The other day, I heard someone refer to his arms as "flippers", and I can see that, but I think the shortness of his arms makes him look more like a T-rex. But then it hit me! He is not one or the other. He is the love child of both --the offspring of a dolphin and a T-rex, making him the Flipper-saurus Rex. 
The Gentleman : There is a very tall, older gentleman who looks like a less pale version of a monster off of the TV show, Buffy, The Vampire Slayer. It's actually a group of monsters, called The Gentlemen, who all look the same and have one purpose. In the show, these guys sweep into Buffy's home town and steal everyone's voices so no one can scream for help when they break into their homes with the intention of cutting out and stealing their hearts for their demonic purposes. I don't think my co-worker is motivated to or capable of stealing voices and tearing out beating hearts from human chests, but I can't help but be creeped out by him, especially when he smiles.
Mario : All I need to say about this guy is that he looks exactly like Mario, only he's hispanic instead of Italian. Sadly, he has to wear the necessary safety equipment and not the suit pictured on the left because neither he nor the ice-cream factory is that awesome.
The Tape Worm : There is one guy who is insanely tall and insanely thin that he looks like a large worm who has learned to walk in an upright position . . . and wear human clothing . . . and work at an ice-cream factory. I haven't bothered talking to him, but I have since started referring to him as The Tape Worm. Even his face is bland, kind of like what I imagine what a worm's face would look like.
And I musn't forget to mention El Cholo. I won't go into great detail about him here as I've already blogged about him, but, if you haven't read about this jerk, I would check out El Cholo immediately.
Daily Ice-Cream Intake :
2 strawberry crunch bars, 2 fudgesicles, 1 frozen yogurt square, 5 ice-cream candy bars, 1 orange sherbert push-up
(see also The Summer of Free Ice-Cream (A Running Tally))
10 June 2011
El Cholo
There is a certain co-worker whom I will call El Cholo (which is Spanish slang for "Mexican gangsta", in case you didn't know). He is 21 years old and super, super thin, so thin that it seems that everything on him is pointy--elbows, chin, nose, shoulders, even his eyes seem pointy.
The first time I spoke with El Cholo, it came up that I was only temporary help for the summer. At this point, he asked me if I was in college. I responded that I would be getting my master's this fall. Upon learning that I had been and will continue being a college student, El Cholo's immediate reaction was to ask "How many times did you get laid?"
To be honest, I'd seen El Cholo around in times past, but I had been ignoring him on purpose. I wasn't too impressed with him, and now I can chalk up another accurate first impression. Sure, El Cholo has tried to strike up conversations with me and be friendly, but all he wants to discuss are sexual escapades. He has never been to college and seems to think that college is nothing more than a perpetual hip-hop music video. You know the kind, the ones of wild parties with trashed dudes hooking up with girls who are even more trashed than they are.
Today, he sat down next to me in the break room and, once again, began interrogating me about my college sex life. "How many times did you get laid?" "What's your craziest story?" "You into fat chics?" "You have any kids?" "How can you not have any kids if you've been to college?" "What were the parties like?" "What kind of car do you drive? A Buick? You're never going to get laid in that."
I sidestepped most of his questions and curtly answered the ones that weren't completely trashy and/or ridiculous. Really, I just wanted him to go away, and being short with him was my subtle way of trying to get him to stop talking. I was not willing to answer most of his questions for a couple of reasons: 1) I wasn't wild in college by any stretch of the imagination. I had fun and was irresponsible on many occasions, but I focused more on grades than on being a complete douche bag, and I knew that if I told El Cholo this that his sex-warped mind wouldn't be able to process it, and 2) I didn't want to encourage him to continue talking to me.
Eventually, he started telling me stories about his own sexual conquests. He even pulled out his cellphone and showed me a couple of X-rated pictures taken while in the act. I really wanted to get up and leave, but I didn't want to make a scene or make things awkward when I encountered him at work in the future. And since I would be leaving the break room soon, I decided to stick it out. If he noticed my displeasure, he didn't show any sign whatsoever. He told me about how he was having sex with a girl in her house and how her mother walked in on them. But all this mother did was tell them to use protection and then left the room. Afterwards, he showered, ate food in their kitchen, said "what's up" to the girl's mother, and then never talked to the girl again.
At one point he told me I had wasted my time in college for not being wild. "What stories are you going to tell your kids. I studied hard and got good grades? Boring! That's not a story! You're supposed to travel the world, have kids all over the place and not even know about them until one day--AHH--there's your son's twin walking down the street." I responded that it was clear that he and I had very different priorities. What an understatement. I didn't say this, but I think our different priorities might be why I am going to graduate school in one of the United State's most-loved cities and he's working in a small town at an ice-cream factory with no plans of ever leaving. Look at me wasting my life.
I know that's harsh. I am not an elitist who thinks you have to go to college to be worth something. I'm not like that at all. But El Cholo is just a young, self-centered, conceited jerk who has no aspirations other than fulfilling his immediate desires. There may be more to him than that, but I'm not going to seek that out. I have better things to do with my time than to wade through his mindless jargon to try and find some semblance of a complex person.
I'm a jerk,. I know. But you would be too if you had to sit through ten minutes of El Cholo's narrow-minded, obsessive sex ranting.
Daily Ice-Cream Consumption
1 strawberry crunch bar, 3 ice-cream candy bars, 1 chocolate ice-cream waffle cone, 2 caramel ice-cream waffle cones
The first time I spoke with El Cholo, it came up that I was only temporary help for the summer. At this point, he asked me if I was in college. I responded that I would be getting my master's this fall. Upon learning that I had been and will continue being a college student, El Cholo's immediate reaction was to ask "How many times did you get laid?"
To be honest, I'd seen El Cholo around in times past, but I had been ignoring him on purpose. I wasn't too impressed with him, and now I can chalk up another accurate first impression. Sure, El Cholo has tried to strike up conversations with me and be friendly, but all he wants to discuss are sexual escapades. He has never been to college and seems to think that college is nothing more than a perpetual hip-hop music video. You know the kind, the ones of wild parties with trashed dudes hooking up with girls who are even more trashed than they are.
Today, he sat down next to me in the break room and, once again, began interrogating me about my college sex life. "How many times did you get laid?" "What's your craziest story?" "You into fat chics?" "You have any kids?" "How can you not have any kids if you've been to college?" "What were the parties like?" "What kind of car do you drive? A Buick? You're never going to get laid in that."
I sidestepped most of his questions and curtly answered the ones that weren't completely trashy and/or ridiculous. Really, I just wanted him to go away, and being short with him was my subtle way of trying to get him to stop talking. I was not willing to answer most of his questions for a couple of reasons: 1) I wasn't wild in college by any stretch of the imagination. I had fun and was irresponsible on many occasions, but I focused more on grades than on being a complete douche bag, and I knew that if I told El Cholo this that his sex-warped mind wouldn't be able to process it, and 2) I didn't want to encourage him to continue talking to me.
Eventually, he started telling me stories about his own sexual conquests. He even pulled out his cellphone and showed me a couple of X-rated pictures taken while in the act. I really wanted to get up and leave, but I didn't want to make a scene or make things awkward when I encountered him at work in the future. And since I would be leaving the break room soon, I decided to stick it out. If he noticed my displeasure, he didn't show any sign whatsoever. He told me about how he was having sex with a girl in her house and how her mother walked in on them. But all this mother did was tell them to use protection and then left the room. Afterwards, he showered, ate food in their kitchen, said "what's up" to the girl's mother, and then never talked to the girl again.
At one point he told me I had wasted my time in college for not being wild. "What stories are you going to tell your kids. I studied hard and got good grades? Boring! That's not a story! You're supposed to travel the world, have kids all over the place and not even know about them until one day--AHH--there's your son's twin walking down the street." I responded that it was clear that he and I had very different priorities. What an understatement. I didn't say this, but I think our different priorities might be why I am going to graduate school in one of the United State's most-loved cities and he's working in a small town at an ice-cream factory with no plans of ever leaving. Look at me wasting my life.
I know that's harsh. I am not an elitist who thinks you have to go to college to be worth something. I'm not like that at all. But El Cholo is just a young, self-centered, conceited jerk who has no aspirations other than fulfilling his immediate desires. There may be more to him than that, but I'm not going to seek that out. I have better things to do with my time than to wade through his mindless jargon to try and find some semblance of a complex person.
I'm a jerk,. I know. But you would be too if you had to sit through ten minutes of El Cholo's narrow-minded, obsessive sex ranting.
Daily Ice-Cream Consumption
1 strawberry crunch bar, 3 ice-cream candy bars, 1 chocolate ice-cream waffle cone, 2 caramel ice-cream waffle cones
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